Writer’s life is destined to misery,
to be hated by what he loves,
to scribble and scribble to make a difference,
in a world with no trust.
He tries to confine sublime into phrases,
bring revelation to ignorant folks.
He builds paths, destroys mazes,
to shed a meaning to meaningless talks.
It doesn't win him bread - what he does.
His art is precious, but no one needs it.
People need lies to get excited,
the truth bores them, they choose to skip it.
Oh, what do you do these days, the honest writer!
You want to deliver a message, burning your heart?
To tell of things you’ve seen and found,
convey divine power and beauty of life,
of genuine feeling and perfect sound?